In a field one summer’s day a Grasshopper was hopping about, chirping and singing to its heart’s content. An Ant passed by, bearing along with great toil an ear of corn he was taking to the nest.
“Why not come and chat with me,” said the Grasshopper, “instead of toiling and moiling in that way?”
“I am helping to lay up food for the winter,” said the Ant, “and recommend you to do the same.”
“Why bother about winter?” said the Grasshopper; we have got plenty of food at present.” But the Ant went on its way and continued its toil.
When the winter came the Grasshopper had no food and found itself dying of hunger, while it saw the ants distributing every day corn and grain from the stores they had collected in the summer. Then the Grasshopper knew: It is best to prepare for the days of necessity.’
~The Ant & The Grasshopper
Travel. Work. Play. More work. More travel. A convention. A Kickstarter. Teaching. Social Media. A novel. A non-fiction book. Travel. Another convention. Another Kickstarter. Publish a book. Write a story. Send that blurb. Phone call. Hair appointment. Get on the plane again. Get off the plane. Go. Stop. Stay. Leave. Stay again. Return. Home.
Busy is taking over my life. This is not a new thing, by any means. I’m good at a lot of things, I like a lot of things, and I can do a lot of things. Being successful is important to me. Living my life to the fullest is also important to me. I like my work. I love my life. This isn’t about working too much. In fact, it might be about the opposite.
Because busy — the act of being busy, the appearance or announcement of being busy for its own sake, the movement that kills time and exists only because I can’t stop moving — is something that I struggle hard against. And mostly lose.
Busy is: I feel like I should be working, but I’m tired, so I’ll just sit here and browse the internet. Which is kind of like working, right?
Busy is: Not making the time or money for the things that really refresh me because I’m too busy trying to stay busy.
Busy is: Feeling bad about doing what I love — reading, gaming, fucking, watching movies — because I didn’t do the work I needed to do because I was ‘being busy.’
It’s a loop, a closed circle, a roller coaster that seems impossible to get off, because you’re so high and so invested and you’re going so goddamn fast and the ground is really really far away.
But it’s not impossible. It’s just hard. I’ve lost my way. I forgot to keep my hands in the car at all times. I forgot that I can gather food AND sing to my heart’s content. It’s not an either/or proposition. There are three parts to this equation: Work and Play and Busy.
I don’t want to be the ant or the grasshopper. I don’t want to be the passive roller coaster rider. I want to be the woman who threw Busy out of the car and lifted her hands and screamed in joy all the way around.
Sure, I’ll get Busy.
And then I’ll send Busy off to bother someone else while Work, Play and I find something more rewarding to do.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.
“The Grasshopper,” by Jules Joseph Lefebvre
You don’t look too busy in that picture . . . but then, you don’t look too blond either.
I love this! Great post.
This is a very classy blog. The first commentor apparently is suffering from Snorggi’s syndrome, a fictional affliction featuring inability to distinguish metaphor from allegory, or, like most of us guys, just skipped directly to the picture without reading the post.
‘[from Wikipedia] Early life. Lefebvre was born in Tournan-en-Brie, Seine-et-Marne, on 14 March 1836. He entered the École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts in 1852 and was a pupil of Léon Cogniet.
Career. He won the prestigious Prix de Rome in 1861. Between 1855 and 1898, he exhibited 72 portraits in the Paris Salon. In 1891, he became a member of the French Académie des Beaux-Arts.
He was an instructor at the Académie Julian in Paris. Lefebvre is chiefly important as an excellent and sympathetic teacher who numbered many Americans among his 1500 or more pupils. Among his famous students were Fernand Khnopff, Kenyon Cox, Félix Vallotton, Georges Rochegrosse, the Scottish-born landscape painter William Hart, and Edmund C. Tarbell, who became an American Impressionist painter. He was long a professor at the École des Beaux-Arts.
Many of his paintings are single figures of beautiful women. Among his best portraits were those of M. L. Reynaud and the Prince Imperial (1874).’
Shanna’s commentary on the imperative scourge of post-industrial “busy-ness,” which has bled into our entire fabric, is spot on. I try not to judge thus who choose to play during the summer ~ “For I became hungry and you gave me something to eat.” Matthew 25.35.